Chapter Text
It is said that, in ages past, the tribes of Messalia and Skiria were not tribes at all, but the pre-existing population of Dorn prior to its invasion by those who named it thus. However, their first queen, Hypatia Pantokrata, excised all written record of her conquest. The modern scholar is thus left with only second-hand accounts, now many centuries old. The author is informed that the folk traditions of the helot tribes could complete the picture, but access to primary sources is not forthcoming, and complicated in the first instance by the outlawing of literacy among their kind.
-Hirom of Myrella, Histories Vol. 7.
On a cold autumn afternoon, pain bit deep into servile flesh, and the flesh bit back a curse.
Timon halted his passage through the field, turning over and drawing up his ankle to inspect it. The snare was still painfully tight, and he silently raged at himself for not taking a risk earlier. All he’d had to do was chance a flesh wound, but no – he’d thought it better to just cut himself loose and run for it, then find a moment to get it off, heedless of whether his foot would carry him until such a time. One moment of respite, and it would have been fine. But no – he had to panic, had to take the wrong turn, had to drop the damn knife. So much for that well-laid plan.
Propping himself up on his palms to look above the tall grass, he carefully scanned the horizon, praying his dark hair wouldn’t stand out against the golden field. There were hovels here and there at the edges: the homes of his own caste. With the ongoing hunt, their inhabitants were shuttered, absent from their assigned crops. Further away, atop the hills, lay domiciles of their masters – dens of lions, even on days when their owners weren’t hunting his kind for sport.
A voice, harshened by exertion and field-dust, shouted something from the direction he’d come. He threw himself flat beneath the wheat-stalks and resumed crawling, ignoring the pain in elbows that were grazed and caked with dirt. He might have hobbled away from the trap earlier, but hobbling wouldn’t cut it against the meanest, toughest women in the peninsula.
***
‘There,’ Glaphyra said, pointing near the dead-centre of the wheat field. ‘You can see where the idiot’s left a furrow in it.’
Phile squinted against the low sunlight for a moment, then nodded. ‘Nicely spotted, Phy.’ She motioned her band forward, offering thanks to the gods that it wasn’t a windy day – they’d never have spotted their quarry with the wheat swaying in the breeze. ‘After him, girls!’
A bit back, far enough away to stay out of earshot and avoid influencing them, their instructor folded her arms and grit her teeth, showing nothing of what simmered within. The other two units had de facto washed out already, having both run off in completely wrong directions. Only Phile’s girls would be fast-tracked into the citizenry this season – the rest would have to serve the remainder of their gruelling final term.
Of course, that only applied if they caught the slave, but catch him they would. Neither of them had foreseen the use of snares, but it was about time for him to give up anyway.
Assuming he stuck to the plan…
***
Timon heard the rustling of multiple bodies approaching through the wheat, barely able to distinguish it from the noise of his own passage before they were on him. A razor-tipped javelin – a warning shot – pierced the dirt just ahead of him with a thack, instantly freezing him in place. If they were close enough for that throw…
‘I got him! I got him!’
The victory screech was loud, hoarse, and accompanied by a vicious stomp between his shoulder blades. Air blasted out of his lungs, he couldn’t do more than croak as it was followed up with a kick to the side that flipped him over.
It would have been nice to lie in the field and watch clouds drift across the blue sky above, but it wasn’t to be. The vista that greeted him was a pair of feral eyes framed by long blonde hair, and a sinewy body beneath the scarlet chiton of a trainee soldier. The butt of a javelin was pressed into his sternum, entirely unnecessarily – he wasn’t going to get any further, whether or not he tried. Now the only matter was how bad he was about to get it.
A second face entered his sight, huffing and panting through cracked lips. ‘Gods below… It’s not… not that impressive, Xanthe…’
Footsteps on dry soil and the cracking of withered stalks heralded the rest of his pursuers catching up. A ring of faces – some pretty, some scarred, some tanned, all cruel – looked down upon him with the contempt and satisfaction of triumphant hunters.
Xanthe giggled and dropped her javelin. She got down on her knees and straddled the fallen slave, hunching over to grip his face tightly and sniff deep, savouring the scents of prey driven to exhaustion. Timon tried not to react, tried not to let his nose wrinkle at the stink of her sweat. The young warrior bared her teeth in bestial fashion.
‘I can’t wait,’ she breathed, sparks of excitement in her eyes. ‘I’m doing it here.’
Someone else, blotted out by the greasy locks falling around Timon’s face, made a sound of disgust. ‘Really? In a field?’
‘He’s filthy,’ said another voice – one he recognised as Glaphyra.
‘We’re all filthy,’ Xanthe said, grin widening as her fingers tugged at his loincloth until its knot gave out. ‘Gods, these slaves and their modesty…’
Timon averted his eyes when she rolled his tunic up over his belt and shifted herself to straddle his groin. His manhood had started to respond even before her impatient hands tried to rouse it with clumsy squeezes and strokes. The first few times, it had been compelled by a skilled touch that knew how to play men like instruments. Soon enough, it had become habit. Now, he swelled on instinct, like it or not. He quite decidedly did not in that moment.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Not this time!
Her class didn’t wear undergarments, so with just a couple bits of linen pushed aside, he could already feel her damp heat upon him. It wasn’t the warmth slowly stoked by loving ministrations, but a thick, hot humidity, heavy with intent – the intimacy of indulgent violence.
‘Look at me, servile,’ she growled. He acquiesced, but she took his head in a two-handed grip anyway. Green eyes alight with possessive frenzy held his gaze. ‘Good. Proceed.’
From the onset, Timon had already resolved to keep silent, in accordance with the plan, but that was looking less viable by the minute. One mistake – one damned mistake, one wrong turn – and his doubts had been vindicated.
And yet, he held firm; he would not enjoy what was about to happen. It would be mere stimulation and response, like a knee jerking when struck. An entire procession of warrior women had tried over the years, but none of them had felt the satisfaction of reciprocity, no matter how many bruises and scars they heaped upon him. This was just one more trial to endure.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Xanthe asked, sitting back on her haunches. Dirty fingernails dug into his cheek. ‘Show some spirit, you mongrel!’
A coil of anger formed in his gut. His eyes flicked around to see not all of the others were paying attention. A couple had wandered off to vent or stew in their disappointment. Would those that remained stop him if he tried to lash out? Was his mistress close enough to protect him from retaliation? What if-
‘Come on!’ Her fingers moved to his neck. He shivered at the threat, and saw the truth of it in her eyes. ‘Assent, or I start squeezing.’
‘Xanthe! Xanthe!’ A familiar voice, steely and furious, but surely too far to intervene.
The hand around his throat began to tighten. He’d seen Xanthe fight – she’d come to the agoge scrawny, but now her body was wrapped in muscle like coiled rope. He tried to grab at her wrists, but her free hand struck a blow to his temple that left stars dancing across his vision.
Through a haze of dull, all-encompassing pain, Timon could still see that grin which nothing could wipe away – not even the bronze-shod foot of his mistress when it slammed into her gut.
***
Kallistrate’s fists were clenched tight, and it took a great deal of restraint not to put them to work. Every inch of her powerful form trembled with fury, but decades of discipline helped keep them by her sides.
‘You damned greedy whore,’ she spat. ‘Are you not aware that this man is my property? That you are obliged to await permission before trying to copulate with him?’
Xanthe clambered swiftly to her feet, her smile diminished only a little by the pain. It had never been an effective deterrent for her – a boon to her personally, but a curse to a schooling system which relied on ‘hard lessons’.
‘Sorry, Lochos.’ She spoke the officer’s title with a sly tone, knowing how little it was about to mean. ‘But you saw him give us the run-around. Can’t blame me for loosing the hounds, can you?’
The lochos gave her a look of sheer disgust. Not for the first time, she had to stifle the urge to draw her blade and stick the pig. Instead, she shoved the upstart aside and knelt to look her bondsman over.
Aside from his dignity – which he’d long since set aside – he seemed in relatively good shape. She cursed upon seeing how deep the snare had dug into his ankle, however; blood trickled into the hemp where it had abraded the skin open, and his foot had turned purple. He gritted his teeth and grunted in pain when she sliced through the rope and began to gently massage the blood back into it. Aside from a bout of undoubtedly painful tingling, and the accumulated dust and dirt, the day’s ordeals appeared to have been mild.
Thais spoke up from behind her, placing a light hand on her shoulder. ‘Lochos, please allow one of us to-’
Kallistrate shrugged her off and closed her ears to the mutinous muttering the others thought she couldn’t hear. ‘He’s my slave. I’ll have him treated as I like, soldier.’
Timon’s dazed eyes locked on hers, bright and alert, but she couldn’t bear to maintain contact. She was used to seeing pain in his gaze, but not hurt. It was the closest thing to open resentment she had seen from him in years, and it shamed her deeply.
‘Simple as milk, aren’t you?’ Xanthe said. The mocking expression on her face was audible. ‘Do you spoil all your helots like that?’
Mistress and slave shared a stern glance. Kallistrate got to her feet and turned to Xanthe – this time with a white-knuckle grip on her short sword. The trainee stared her down despite it.
‘I will remind you, girl, that you are not an Equal yet. Until dawn, you remain under my command.’
Xanthe wiped her hands off on her tunic and placed them on her hips. ‘So flog me. Maybe I’ll learn my lesson this time?’
Her grin didn’t survive Kallistrate’s backhand slap. A trickle of blood ran unheeded down her chin. Neither noticed that the others had fallen into dead silence at the whip-crack sound.
‘You may be a free woman tomorrow, Xanthe,’ Kallistrate said, stepping close to tower over and look down upon her, ‘A free woman with her own allotment, her own helots, and any man she wishes for a stud. A free woman who can be challenged to sacred combat, and carved to pieces in sight of the gods. Think on that tonight. It might save your life in the coming days.’
Xanthe stared up at her for a moment, but eventually, she blinked, and the smile returned, warm and deferent as she could make it. ‘I’ll take it to heart, Lochos.’
‘Now then,’ Kallistrate said, all anger wiped from her voice to leave it clear and commanding, ‘I deem the Harrying complete. You have all demonstrated personal and collective competence in this most holy of trials, proving the truth of your devotion to our sacred land. Come the rising of Luminous Ília, you will be Equals of Dorn.’ Ramrod-straight and chest puffed, she thumped her left fist below the centre of her collarbone. ‘Galeí!’
As one, all the young women – even Xanthe – replied in kind thrice. ‘Galeí! Galeí! Galeí!’ resounded across the wheat-field, a breeze seeming to imbue it with physical force.
Kallistrate nodded and turned back to Timon, helping him to his feet while the other trainees looked on. Fear, wonder, and no small amount of joy was in their eyes – with one exception.
In Xanthe’s, there was only hate.